Birthday Blues
by Sulcal
Summary: When fall rolls around, Jiraiya knows what to expect. [Happy birthday Jiraiya] [drabble]


Notes: I wrote this mostly just 'cause I could and 'cause _Naruto_ is eating my soul. My birthday was recent and Jiraiya's is coming up. So… yeah… Happy birthday, Jiraiya? (sigh) Late-year birthdays are a rarity. But still, I love the guy!

Disclaimer: I owneth not.

Birthday Blues

Around the end of every year, as the seasons changed and the air grew cold and the leaves turned colors… around that time of year, Jiraiya knew what was coming up. He neither liked nor disliked it. His birthday came and went as it always would— quietly, without fuss.

Well… _mostly_ without fuss.

He did usually drink himself in a stupor.

Mostly because he could almost count every event by the intervals of years around this time of year. But the Sinister Season holidays usually took away the sting. No one really cares much for the next couple of weeks, and he's sufficed to think that, in the least, is enough. He doesn't need to have a bunch of young people running around on his birthday, making him feel relatively old. Older than he'd like to feel. Unlike a certain blonde he knew, he didn't use chakra to make himself seem more youthful, never saw the point in it. Jiraiya liked to think that his devilish good looks just so happened to be thanks to aging rather gracefully.

But, when he looked at his reflection in the river, he realized he was just fooling himself.

Above Konohagakure, the last rind of the sun was pealing away, bleeding its last vermilion across the sky and onto the slowly-changing leaves, making them seem as if they were on fire. It only brought back an ever painful memory of a Village that was being systematically destroyed and laid to waste. It brought back the memory of orange fur and a man who died to give everyone a second chance. But, then, as the memory faded, Jiraiya caught sight of the cliff face and the faces carved into them. The one resembling Tsunade is turned towards the bleeding and dying sun while it dips ever lower…

He stuffed his hands into a pack to briefly store a scroll he'd been glancing at; a small report on Naruto's progression with Yamato and Kakashi. Kakashi's handwriting is untidy and too polite and damn near impossible to read chicken scratch. It's something Jiraiya's noticed. The jounin's kanji are always smudged from the left hand and the rest is always lopsided.

No one could be perfect, he supposed, and continued walking off of the bridge, with a faint sigh.

Jiraiya found himself a tavern, sat at the bar, and ordered a drink. The bartender was a lovely woman, but the scars lining her arms and across exposed collarbones told stories. Jiraiya grinned at her winningly.

"Well, hey there, lovely Miss."

She tilted her head slightly; the scar above her delicate brown eye to the right twisting the expression of what should have been a questioningly raised brow. "Pardon?" she asked. She knows him. She old enough to know him. The slight wrinkles around her eyes and face make it apparent.

But she doesn't say anything more.

"What's a lovely woman like you doing tending a place like this?"

When Jiraiya sweeps a hand across the bar, a few patrons look up at the energetic gesture. Mostly out of habit. Jiraiya could see it, just from having observed his once-student train _his_ student, that many are ANBU. He doesn't need to ask why there are one-way windows around the place or dark corners to hide or easily escapable doors in places. ANBU disliked being cornered or seen. A contradiction. But a necessary one… The bartender brushes escaped wisps of brown hair from her thin face, as if thinking, and simply shrugs.

"I like it," she finally replies. "It pays the bills."

And then she's sweeping away on long, toned legs and Jiraiya was very sure training had helped form, and accepted the rejection with a sigh and another drink. It figured.

_Oh, well,_ the artist in him thinks partially, _at least it was worth a try. She really is lovely._

Jiraiya spent the better part of the night keeping to himself, thinking.

He thought of the report, of Sarutobi, of Orochimaru. Jiraiya thought of a lot of things. Even thought of how he was going to deal with Akatsuki. If there even really was anything to be done. As of late, there has been an increasing amount of activity. More sightings amongst those in his network of intelligence. That alone was what was keeping him here in the Village— although he has never felt at home here, this place _was_ his home. No way around it.

If anything, he owed all that he is to Sarutobi.

Jiraiya pushed the thoughts out of his mind as drinks slowly started to fuzz things. Apparently he'd found himself a good spot. ANBU seemed to be hard drinkers and the saké was exceptionally strong for most common bars. But, then again, this place wasn't such, and he supposed the reason he found it was that it was hiding right in plain sight. What better way?

Thoughts drift away from business to something less stressful— to _Icha Icha_. Perhaps it was time to introduce a new plot twist.

And the rest of the evening, while Jiraiya could still enjoy it, was passed with Jiraiya scribbling ideas and notes down on an empty scroll he'd pulled from inside his vest. Scrolls were easier to carry around rather than slips of paper; easier to keep track of.

Either way, Jiraiya passed his birthday much the same way he always did.

And it was, perhaps, alright that he was getting a little older.


End file.
